


Spinning Wheel

by orphan_account



Series: Spinning Wheel [1]
Category: Jeffrey Dahmer - Fandom, Serial Killers - Fandom, True Crime - Fandom
Genre: Blood and Gore, Drug Use, Explicit Language, F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Multi, Psychological Drama, Psychological Horror, Rape, Tragic Romance, both present tense and flashbacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23078827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Following the chapter entitled: "The Lonely", here lies a novel of explicit and psychotic nature. With Jeffrey Dahmer as the main protagonist, the novel works around other killings in the same era with knowledge while including Dahmer as it's hitching post. The book is written under numerous points of view, as well as, the use of partial and impartial AU. Also, speaks on the secrets that Dahmer himself may have taken to the grave.
Series: Spinning Wheel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658662
Kudos: 8





	1. The Man in the Box

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not copy and reproduce my work and do not quote my work without permission. Other than that, I hope everyone enjoys the read! Thank you so much for taking the time to check it out. :)  
> -The Author

FORWARD

When you hear the word: monster.  
What's the first image that comes to mind?  
Is it some form of a supernatural being, an unearthly extraterrestrial creature?  
Could it be human?

What if, the word 'monster' had meant all of these things and more?  
You know, what if, this world was honestly only trying so hard as to divide the living from the damned to the point of when the evildoers in this world are considered immoral, that they become namely fictitious. 

That if you had heard the word: monster.

You wouldn't imagine a man by name of Jeffrey Dahmer.  
You'd likely imagine a grisly and tripedal wolf with two heads and a skeleton key for every door in hell chained around its neck.

A hellhound lurking in the forest.

Half-fish and half-woman with razor-like teeth and glass eyes lurking in the swamps.

The first thing that comes to mind, doubtfully, would be Dahmer.  
A human, a cannibal, a serial killer and a monster.

The truth of the matter is, that there's a fine line between reality and fantasy and almost anyone could cross it.  
But, it takes an open mind to welcome in that the possibilities of there being someone exactly like us in this other realm and having absolutely everything and nothing in common with what you grew up hearing about in fairytales and ancient legends, would exist.

That too, in a world where it all is not as it seems; that legends having already been born and tales already having been spun.  
Where we had been dropped into the middle of quicksand and sucked down into a plot hole awaiting our scripts to read off the final line in character.  
That, we ourselves, can't control the story.  
The story, in the end, is controlling us.

Where's the reality in that?

The Screenplay Writer currently is editing out your next answer and rewriting it in his own.  
The Stage Director informs you to stand against your own reflection in the mirror.

Now, you are neither a man nor a monster.

You are what the audience perceives for you to be.

And the Directors are there to make sure that in the real world, nobody will forget your name and nobody will ever know the truth of how far you'd come to lay aside yourself and become what everyone else wanted for you to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Info:  
Jeffrey Dahmer,  
The Milwaukee Monster  
5/21/1960 -11/28/1994

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spinning Wheel

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dedicated to those of whom had dared to journey alongside me in my passion for crime, and had also sought to understand that there is nothing wrong with my head, that I just forget to reattach it from time to time.  
-The Author-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter One

David Toole's POV

They called me David because within 24 hours the media had already conjured up a name, I had gone missing for more than two days and my body had never been found. They say the suspicion was that I had been alive but just nowhere to be found or dead and haven't been found out yet, either way about it, I was still as gone that day as I was yesterday. I never got to meet the man that everybody talks about, that everybody hates. Whoever he is or whatever his name, I know that he had and still has nothing to do with me, in fact over the years, I had pretended as though I never knew about him or read about him in the paper or saw him on television. That today it had never occurred to me that in some form or fashion I was missing, because of him.

And nobody knew I had been alive.

Well, until now.

The answer was no. No, I didn't know what he looked like, no he never touched me, no we never met, no I didn't know any of his relatives and no I have no recollection of ever being made to leave the store with a complete stranger in from outside of the Florida mall at the age of six or seven. The press wanted to know why I had gone missing and I said:

'I supposedly had gone missing for over fifteen years because of my Father.'

In which, I had been asked why and I had replied with:

'Because of a difficult stump in my parents' marriage and I had seemingly become the surrogate of some guy who killed my best friend. Adam Walsh.' 

It was only half the truth. It had been years ago, Adam, me and a couple of our other friends were busy playing Atari at a kiosk in the Florida mall right next to the Sears department store. 

Adam's Mom had left us there while she had gone to look at lamps a few aisles over. Well, when she was away, Adam and I got into this argument about whose turn it was and we all kind of got into a fight over that until a security guard had come to break us apart which resulted in the boys and I being thrown outside, but that wasn't until answering the question about our parents being in the store. Of course, we didn't want to get into even more trouble so it was reasonable at the time to have replied with: No. And that's how we got the boot. I was there when it happened, I can't say the same for any of the other boys. But I saw Adam get into that car with who I wanted to deem a complete stranger, a "stranger" that made me swear on my grave that I wouldn't tell anybody about the job offer he had made with Adam.

I admit I was a little bit jealous, I mean; endless toys and candy? It seemed like a pretty unfair deal to me and when the other kids left me standing all alone, I eventually saw Mrs. Walsh exit the store looking like she just walked into a tornado. She was so upset and shaking everywhere, running her fingers through her hair and pulling at her face while crying: 

'Where's my baby boy?!' 

But, having had to keep that promise, I said nothing, when without knowing that what I could have said could have helped save my friend Adam's life. When my Dad came around to take me home, he finally was able to make me spill the beans about what Mrs. Walsh was complaining about and at the time, he was also kind of having an affair with her which could have easily made me Adams older brother in the future if nothing bad ever happened. Not to mention, I never saw it happen but Toole also claimed to have disposed of Adams's body by incinerating it in an old refrigerator when he returned to Jacksonville. He claimed that he wanted to make Adam his adopted son, but given the close relationship he had with loving parents, this was not very feasible. After what I told Dad, he stole me away and drove all the way out into the middle of nowhere.

People had thought that I too had gone missing and that it was never my Father who took me out on that lifelong hunt to find Adam but that it was the man that took Adam to be confused as the man who took me. My Father. Chances are, maybe they were right after all. Maybe I made up some substitution of a story inside of my head to help me cope with the reality of everything. Maybe the stranger was none other than my Father all along. Maybe Adam was the one person I was trying to ignore the entire hours drive away from the mall. And maybe I never died. Maybe I just wish I had been the one to have died instead.

"So you think that you're Adam Walsh." The voice on the tape recorder could be heard very clearly, the room ambiance acting as a suspenseful background noise in the recording. I nearly couldn't bring myself to say it, all those years of going in circles and the court trying to accuse all these different criminals of ever murdering me when what they had done was... not even get as far as to have got my name when I was first accosted. "I'm not Adam Walsh." The name, I had to have been lying to myself, I wanted so badly to be in order to speak for my childhood best friend, nevertheless, I wasn't. "You are right this time." The man continued on, "Then can you tell me who you are?"

"I'm Toole's son. The son of the man who killed my best friend."

Truth is, I had waited on that corner for nearly five hours until my Dad had come back and when he did, Adam was in the passenger seat. I never found out what he meant when he said: 

'Sweets are a lot like kisses, they stick to your teeth.' 

He drove us out to his other home, a cabin but we ended up north on the Florida Turnpike to a deserted service road and the whole trip I could barely look at them instead of out the side window, back then I was more upset with Adam when I should have never been. I remember at one point, my Dad stopping out in the middle of nowhere because Adam and I started bickering at one another. My Dad turned off the car when we were parked in the woods, he told Adam:

'Do you know what happens when you lie?' 

Little did I think it had anything to do with Adam and I mentioning how our parents weren't even there. Could have explained why later on, My Father was confused as Adam's Father; police being quick to judge Mr. Walsh.

'Well you don't have to answer so I'll answer for you.' Said Dad, 'you lost out, Adam. All your toys and candy are going to David.' 

Next thing you know, Adam was furious, flipping out jealous in the passenger seat. I saw my Dad punch him when Adams's frantic behavior became worse. Everything fell quiet. The sound of birds was silent in their warning, seeing my Dad's face like that after Adam hit him, made me want to run too. It made me want to apologize to Adam, and so I did.

"Adam. I'm sorry! When we get back I'll let you play all the Atari you want, I swear!" 

Dad turned on me to shut me up, second to Adam trying to open the door and run. My mind has recovered from blocking out the entire two hours of watching my Dad touch him in ways I didn't even understand. I don't know what came over me but I was more than afraid, afraid of my own Father and how he'd been making these animalistic sounds that I'd only ever heard him make in a bedroom alone with Mom.

I begged for Adam to fight him off, I just didn't know how at the time. But I was watching his face and seeing him in pain and we were both crying when our eyes were on each other's. The moment I said it, the moment I had opened my mouth; Dad didn't take kindly to it and began to choke him with the seatbelt strap as if in a means to punish me. I began yelling, clawing at his arm, trying to make him stop hurting Adam but he was so much stronger than me. When Adam went unconscious, I freaked. The first sign I saw of my friend being dead, I freaked out and jumped from the car. 

I was running like I've never run before. 

Hours later Dad had come and found me, however, I wasn't aware of the more damage he'd already done to Adam. Fourteen days later, fishermen found Adam's head in a canal in Vero Beach. Fifteen years later I was finally able to escape my Dad; Toole. Mr. Walsh had long believed that Toole killed his son, but evidence gathered by the police, carpet from Toole's car and the car itself, was lost by the time DNA technology was developed to the point at which it could have linked the carpet stains to Adam. Given, Adam was probably dragged out of the car anyway. I'm just glad that my Dad's been finally arrested which means that I can go on with my life where I'm safer now.

-

I swore to know the man in the box, just a sketch. A sketch with rough pencil outlines and wiry hair, topped with a pair of thick-framed glasses. I swore to know him enough to picture the color of his eyes. The color of his hair. How he moved, how he stared, what he thought of the world outside of himself, and why he did what he did and where. 

I swore to know the man in the box staring at myself as I did in the mirror.

"I've seen his face on television. He doesn't look a thing like my father. Blond hair, blue eyes and a look that pleads: 'kill me'. My Dad was confused with this man? I can hardly believe it. The blond is a lot smarter in his ways then again also awfully addled himself. My Dad, on the other hand, has never felt bad for his actions."

"What makes you think that this man that you're seeing on the TV is any different than your Father, one a convicted serial killer and rapist and the other just a rapist?"

The rapist. My doctor called the man in the box that.

I found myself shrugging, and after the seconds ticked between us long enough, I replied with: "Because at least one of them have morals. My Dad is dishonorable. He doesn't care who lives or dies, he sees something that he wants, he usually finds a way to get it."

"And this man, who I assume you say carries these 'morals' you speak of. What's he like? You don't know him. He could be the same way: he sees something that he likes, he's finding a way to get it."

"No." I answered my therapist, my fingers lacing around the box of cards sitting on the round table, "I think he's too particular about what he wants. Which makes him cautious... and more aware of what he's doing."

"What is he doing?"

"What is my /Father/ doing?" I turned the tables around on him, lifting the box of cards up to drop them back down onto the table, turning around to face the other more so. "He's targetting young boys, boys less than half my age. He takes one look at them and is finding a way to lure them into his car... he isn't cautious. He leaves Adams's blood on the bottom of the floorboard, cuts off his head and puts it in a little boat at sea.." only a little bit of an exaggeration. Anyway. "He's looking for attention. This guy?"

The television flickers overhead, ironically, across the room where a few other patients were rounded; shuffling their Uno Cards and or talking in riddles to one another. I could swear by seeing the face of someone I felt more familiar with than I did with my own Dad. Sitting there with his head facing me from the sofa, but he's not really there. I placed the man in the box there. "He's living in his own drought, he's not looking for attention from outsiders. He's looking for company."

"And what about your Father... is he not as alone as you are?"

"Or is he?" I gestured to the tv screen; the sleeve of my robe hanging from my arm like a flag. Still dressed in my morning wear. "I don't want to talk about my /Father/." I drawled out in disgust to him with a lower of my arm. "I don't want to talk about me. I don't want to talk about Adam, may he rest in peace."

"Then who do you want to talk about?"

The funny thing was, there was never an actual representation of the man's face on the television screen, not as far as what my therapist could tell. Before him had sat a young man doped out on psychiatric medication, envisioning someone to life, breathing a presence into their existence, where everyone else's company was futile and less of entertainment than the company I was starting to live with inside of my own head. 

A muse for the warm afternoons I'd find myself sitting outside on the bench and writing up another letter; speculating, seeking to empathize, to better understand someone else along with myself. The news had barely been a thing of the now, but I saw that this man the reporters mentioned was no less of a felon than I was. I couldn't fathom it, nobody else could either. A 'rapist' machine, as down in the brain as I was inside of a mental institution? What made my Father crazier than I was, in different circumstances, was for the fact that he's ruthless, he doesn't care, you get that now. He doesn't show it, he never had.

And I'm sitting here. Caring for a complete monster on the big screen.

But one day I had let my emotions get the better of me and I had created a safe place out near the lake where I would go, to decent onto the ground and talk to Adams severed head as though he were still around. As the days grew older, he was somehow still younger. To me, he made me see that I wasn't aging, I was stuck in a time seasoned by desperate measures. When I refused to talk with my Dad, when I refused to look at myself, when I refused to face the truth impartially yet; Adam was there in the water and watching me. Keeping me company. I was no different than the man I was listening about on the news; being alone in the world was a cruel acceptance, even more, when you'd feel like there's no point living at all and to make do with what you have until someone else comes along and takes you down because you don't have the courage to rid yourself out. Now that I'm far away from Adam, he's nowhere around me anymore. That saddens me.

I'm here at an empty table half of the time where an extra empty chair sits opposite me and I'm thinking to myself: 'If I could write to you. Get to know you. Get to talk with you and we can chat about all types of things like how our day went to even our immobile sex life, would things become any better or harder for us? Would you try to seek control of me through my writing or find me to personally come up with some motive for cheesier conversation or drag me away for an attack? Could I sit and talk to you about anything and everything: my Dad. My Mom. Uncle Joe, or even my three cats? Would you find that to be much better than making me stay? Making anyone at all stay, consequently, for them not to leave you behind at all? Because I want to know you. I want to breathe you. I want to be your friend.'

"David." My therapist was seeking to bring me back into reality after witnessing me drift apart. I had jolt a little, shaking my head to the obvious: I had forgotten what we were on about.

"David, if you don't want to talk about it or anyone else anymore, would you at least like to write about it?"

"Of course I could stand to write about it, " I began to explain to him. "Even more than I could stand to speak about it. It feels too personal for me to share him with you. Or to share about anyone else for that matter."

"I understand." He said. "So what would you propose?"

"That you let me write to him."

"Write to him? But you don't know where he lives, David."

"I know," I said. "And I don't have to. But if I can write to him, I may be able to meet him one day and I could give these letters to him as a gift."

"You've written to him for almost every day now since you've been admitted into this facility."

"I know."

Heaving a sigh, my therapist would nod to me, making the stand from his seat. "Alright, then I'll come back around with your pencil and paper. Also, David?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't become too wrapped up in this person that you don't have knowledge of. You never are aware of the dangers that come from an unhealthy obsession."

I refused to stoop that low as to crack under the weight of those words, and instead had pitched in by saying: "Thank you for the paper and pencil." Then I would watch him leave as though my glee and sanity depended on it.

-

I used the library and had asked around about the man in the box, a few people returned without an answer but there was a girl to my dismay that had the answer that I was looking for about where he was. She had told me she had once met him herself, and that they were even childhood friends. The girl had given me a small note concealing the details of his current home address. That same day I had sat down to pull all of my letters to him into a pile and folded it nicely to place into the hands of some minor colleague in whom would take the heavy envelope and set it to sail. A month or two had passed and I was real surprised that I'd ever received a letter back from this TV Idol I'd all but fantasized about. I shouldn't have been so quick as to draw out my conclusions that this guy was anything like me or my Dad. But whenever I had sat down on the edge of my bed after taking that morning's medication, I began to open up the envelope to pull the loose sleeve of folded paper out. Unfolding it in my hands, I had begun to read:

Dear David,

Hello handsome One, how are you? Everything is fine here for me. Thanks a lot for those lovely letter's that you've sent me; I read every one of them, real sweet of you to think so highly of me but I wouldn't think so highly of myself in that way. So I wouldn't expect for you to, either. 

I hope that you enjoy reading the magazines that I'm sending to you; I found them to be interesting. Also, thanks for reaching out to me, I hope that you don't cut yourself short and get out of there as soon as you're better. You told me about how you like to read, well I did enclose an order form for a book that sounded interesting; it's called "To Hell & Back." When I'm finished with reading it I could mail it out to you if you would like to read it- what do you think?

It's been a while since I've talked to anyone about what I go through and I don't wish to vent about it, I am very hush-hush whenever it comes to these things. And maybe it's for the best that I am, it isn't like I have any psychiatrist telling me what to do or what medications to take even if that's what I may need, Mom and Dad both won't let me into that world. Therefore I can't be seen, also, the last round of medication I ever took was from a Doctor when I was the age of 4 whenever I had surgery to correct a double hernia. Even then, Dad didn't want me on any medication, Mom just made me soups and stuff.

About that article you read in the library; I have one or two art books, but I'm not all that interested in the subject. I really liked that "lesson" on the puffins; I think that they are pretty neat too! I enjoy listening to classical music, but I don't have any tape's of whales. Yes, I think that you might enjoy a visit to the Chicago Aquarium, I've always liked fish. You are right, I am very depressed, so I don't have many interest's these days. I really am not able to open up new world's for anyone because mine has completely collapsed in on itself- I'm sorry.  
Don't get me wrong, it's real nice to hear from you I just feel like I can't tell you enough or it's too much. When you're out of the institution do you think we could meet? 

Well, David, that sound's like a great way to wake up to me too! Writing letters. I hope that all your days are bright and filled with good things and much joy! Take good care of yourself for me too!

All my love,  
Jeff

P.S. There is a fat little chipmunk that has his hole right in front of my window. He comes out every day, and eat's the clover flowers, and he's out there right now; it's fun to watch him. There are a lot of lavender too, but he never eats any of them; I wonder why?

I knew of why and I had been sure to mention it in my next letter.

That the reason why that fat little chipmunk didn't ever eat any of the lavender was because of one thing.

Dear, Jeffrey. 

They're poison.


	2. Pushing Daisies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Pushing Daisies, we enter Jeffrey Dahmers POV following shortly after getting Davids's letter. Jeffrey learns that the one thing he knows that he can't touch or have, like poison itself, has inevitably lead him down an even darker path.

Jeffrey's POV

They're poison, David had written to me. They're poison. I'd walk by the K-through first every day on my way home from work and think the same thing about the kids. That's why I didn't stop to breathe the same air, that's why I didn't stop to watch them because that's what their joyful life was too during recess; on their swings, on the seesaw, at the slide going up or going down. No matter what may have convinced me to stop to smell the dandelions and take in the scenery, I didn't, because it was poisonous for me. 

Grandma was sitting at the supper table whenever I walked in through the front door, she was reading a book before she acknowledged me making my way into the kitchen. "Something smells good, Grandma." I announced, drawing her attention towards me as I flung open the refrigerator door for a soda. "Thank you, dear. It's homemade chicken pot pie! You remember the old recipe, don't you? I figured it would make for a lovely surprise for when you got home." Her cheerfulness had always found it's way through the barriers of my heart and had made whatever was weighing down on my mind to vanish completely. I turned to meet her smile with one of my own before popping the cap on the soda can.

"So how was work, Jeff? I hadn't always imagined you would work as a phlebotomist at the Blood Plasma Center."

I had taken a quick drink from the fizzy drink and sighed, the breath of air leaving my shoulders weak, "Well, Grandma, neither did I. But it's the only place that would hire me right now."

"I would suggest you keep looking, that way you won't have to keep working at someplace so... gruesome." I blinked at her use for words. "Gruesome?" Laughing a little, she would shake her head, "It wouldn't be so funny if your father found out. After all, your time away at the army wasn't entirely the best, now was it?"

"Grandma, let's not talk about it. If I could've gotten a job at the shop, I would have. It's the best I can do right now." My reply seemed sluggish because frankly, I was tired and talking about this wasn't a thing I wanted to do. Alas, Grandma gave me a grin sided with a nod, "Don't you worry about it, then. I should check the pot pie, it's been in there for over an hour- oh!" She exclaimed, standing up from the chair with a winded groan. "No, Grandma. Sit down. I'll get it."

"Jeff, are you sure?"

But I was already making it towards the oven, setting down the soda, "Yeah, Grandma. I'm already in the kitchen." Taking an oven mitt from off of the hook above the stove, I would pry the oven door open and reach inside for the iron tray to slide out, peeking at the risen crust and hearing the simmering of heat. I figured it was done so I went ahead and pulled the pan from out of the oven and would sit it onto the stove with a shut of the oven door. "Looks good, Grandma. I think it's ready."

"Wonderful! Well, it has to sit there for a few minutes, but..um, Jeffy, honey? Could you help me into the living room, Three's Company is on and I want to sit and watch it."

"Oh, grandma," I teased, walking over to assist the old woman from out of her chair, letting her grab hold of my arm, "you don't still have a crush on Jack Tripper, do you?" Grandma laughed, coughing a bit as she leaned into me, letting me walk her into the living room towards the sofa. "Honey, those days are over," I smirked, taking small walks until we would reach the comfort she'd soon sink down onto with my help. I would then walk over to the box TV and switch it on, moving about the rabbit ears until the white noise was loosened up. Grandma took the big remote from off of the table and began to surf channels until the theme song from Three's Company could be heard amidst the static. "Hurry, hurry, it's starting!" 

"Just a second, Grandma. You know I don't have magic fingers." Sometimes, I wished that I did though, for personal reasons. Finally, the television was all set and I saw her staring wide-eyed at the show opening, "I'm going to leave you now, Gram. Going to my room. Did you need anything else?"

"My-," she worked away from the distraction, "my knitting things, over there on the chair." Once I had handed over the knitting stuff to her, I began to walk towards the stairs, watching the show and her giddy reactions over my shoulder, unable to quite tear myself away from her happiness or the smile on my face I was unaware was even there, walking up the stairs towards my bedroom. The door closed with a soft thud behind me and at first glance, I fixed myself to the window with its curtains giving the subtle hint of sunlight peeking through to me and the mystery that I've already discovered I knew the clues about, laying outside of my room. I began to prowl towards it despite my unease, the tension at my back like white-hot fire, sensing that I was being observed from the bedroom door, fitting too big for the small box I was inside of. My stomach churned until I heard a growl tremble from its chambers, the silence was loud, the blood in my ears was chaotic and my intentions failed me.

I stopped and made a turn back for the door.

-

He did it. They said. I watched him do it, she stated. Nobody was doing anything at first and so I had waved down a security man myself to settle things and had also brought my friends' kids along with me to give the statements themselves. 

Much Later  
Following being cuffed.

The keyboard ticked away as one of the admitting officers ran my fingers into dry, dark gray ink. His hand over mine to press my fingers onto a slide of paper, and I felt nothing. No shame. No guilt. Perhaps I had already obsessed about it too much, too much that when I finally pulled through with it, it had felt like it had already been done and it was the thrill of being seen that made things all the more exciting. Even now, when I stood rightfully accused, the butterflies in my stomach kept going and floating about, confusing me with how I felt. Was I still excited? Was I afraid? Guilty? I didn't understand my emotions, or how I was supposed to feel, it wasn't the worst thing I've ever done and I knew this. But the police didn't, and perhaps that was the case. 

That they didn't know and I had expected for them too.

"Stand right over there, will ya? Need to get that mugshot."

My back pressed up against the wall, I gave the gentlemen and one woman no further attention for the exception of the lens that I would stare into with a blank expression. I had a feeling the aftermath of this would make me look like shit, it was then I came to just deal with the fact that what I was feeling, was exactly that. Like shit. This wouldn't be the first time, and it surely wouldn't be the last. When the question arose to why I did what I did at the State Fair Park when what I could've been doing was enjoying that bag of popcorn I had bought, I stated:

"I wondered if it would feel any different than the first time."

Where, in 1981, I was arrested for Disorderly Conduct and Resisting Arrest after being drunk and abusive towards staff at the Ramada Inn but, this was West Allis, Wisconsin. Didn't the past just die when you vacate a certain city or state into another? Wasn't this meant to have been a fresh start? 

"The first time?" The cop asked me, not even seconds after I admitted to it, "first time, when? Where?"

"Nevermind. It was meant to be a joke I was saving for later."

It wasn't meant to be funny, and he did take my word seriously, either. "Har-har, Dahmer. You fucking Fiddler, but let me catch you with anything else inside of your pockets next time besides lint." Upon being convicted I had been charged fifty dollars plus court costs. Fifty dollars just so happened to always be in my pocket for the near future, perhaps this was my way of preparing myself. I never thought that far ahead, but perhaps it was. If, and when, someone else began pushing up daisies I'd always get that fifty back to pay for it. However, paying the devil his dues didn't always necessarily mean that in the future if I had fifty, that I wouldn't also be paying out of pocket lint. I had a feeling that I was more self-aware of what my own personal demons were doing to me, and not what the angels outside of my own private hell had planned and what the Devil would be laughing about the second God whispered in another's ear to say:

An eye for an eye.

A tooth for a tooth and a head for a head.

What a waste. I hadn't written David back, I didn't have the wherewithal. I wasn't ready. As much as what I may have already grown a stop spot inside for him, in a means of having someone else to talk with instead of the voices inside of my head, I wouldn't write to him to tell him that he was right. For now, I'd like to think that of how I'm not in the wrong. Not yet, that I too wasn't ready to be in the wrong, this was a mistake. A mistake is what you do every so often and some people have to make that mistake over and over in order to figure out where they went wrong the first time. The problem that laid here with me is that what if I never find out where I went wrong the first time and just continued to sit on that spinning wheel going in circles, following behind the same path, seeing the same things, acting the same way and never finding out what the difference is and or why the actions I could not excuse for the life of me were wrong.

That this, all of it, was wrong. If it's wrong, what could I do to make things better? I could pray about it, maybe, like my Dad insisted I do sometimes (even though he was in disbelief himself). I could go back to church. I could screw my head back onto my shoulders and walk a straight and narrow path without thinking so much about where I was headed and more of what the trees and people in my way had planned out for me. If I talked a certain way, looked a certain way, and acted another way, was there hope for me? Was it possible to close these emotions off and ignore them? Was it possible to play dead for a while and see where that got me? Or, if I'm addicted to these things I'm obsessed with immensely, perhaps there was a way of experimenting with them to make them less hazardous on me and everyone else around me.

More than half of the time, I just wonder when would the ride end and when will I be getting off?

I honestly just should have stayed at home to watch that chipmunk, instead, inside my little box.

FLASHBACK:

September 9, 1979

Laughter. It had followed me everywhere, and if I wasn't drunk, I was staring at someone's gaping, yapping mouth, blindly and expecting a fly to be sucked right inside. The bitter taste of alcohol, I'd already gotten so used to, by the time that I had picked up another I was already anticipating to taste nothing at all. The room was spinning at this point and I'd been unaware that I was laughing too, here and there, as the red-painted walls spun on their axis and the light would flicker; cold reflections of garnet lips smeared along the frames of my glasses- sloppy kisses from the women sitting in the carousel with me and a few other men.

My clammy hand gripped hold on the bottle as I sought desperately for my thoughts, to gather them all into one basket. One of the men leaned in and my head fell against his, cold and wrecked; sweat drooling onto his scalp but he didn't seem to mind. I watched as his own hand reached across the table passed me and held onto one of the women whom was sitting beside me, grabbing at her fingers and pulling her close. Close could only get so far, as she was sandwiching me along with the other, who I had been leaning against for a while now: Michael. "Mike..." I slurred, the other men watched on and laughed even louder now, the sound reverberating all throughout my conscience. "Looks like he's onto you, man!" One of them quipped right along with another, whose words rang clear, "He's not a little faggot, is he?" The chuckling tuned in and out of rhythm as I groggily withdrew from Mike and took hold of the woman's hand, stealing her hand into my own.

A bunch of mumbled coos came in my bold attempt in stealing this woman for myself, inching in until she fed me her mouth. Michael made a tutting noise and stole my bottle of beer since he'd been done with his own, mocking me as he drank and finished up the remnants of alcohol. "He doesn't need anymore... unless he's planning on sleeping with me too tonight. Fucking whore." His comment only ailed on the loop of neverending laughter as the sober woman began to pull me out from the leather booth by the collar, eyeing Michael with an: "I've always liked a man in uniform." Her taunting gained a smirk from the man and then an, "In your dreams, doll. I'll be taking another beer while you're at it."

"In your dreams." She cooed and proceeded to lead my drunken stance down a dark and winding hallway that had only began to grow smaller and smaller the closer we had gotten to a room. "Now that I've gotten you all to myself." She danced her hip sidelong after unlocking the door but I pushed forward, dizzily, "Just go." I murmured under my breath, besides that I could hardly understand her, the german accent thick on her tongue. She hummed, "Hmm. Didn't take you as the one to give orders, stranger." Her hands would guide me in while her heels took her backward through the entryway, "Mr. Military Man."

Michael whistled over a waitress, "Another round! Come on!"

"No more drinks after ten!" She replied and the entire table reacted to her words in disgust. "We serve your god damn country, now I demand for me and my brothers!" The others started in with their hooting and hollering, one of them reaching to raise the waitress' skirt up and earning him a slap of her hand and a growl of, " widerliches Schwein!" Which in German would translate to: 'Disgusting pig!' The boys all laughed, "She's a rowdy one, Michael."

"Yeah yeah- and I'll be sitting here for a good minute without another beer when what I could be doin' is laying that rowdy girl down."

"She called you a pig." One of the women sitting at the table chimed in, brushing up into the man at her side as her eyes scanned Michaels, "A disgusting pig." Her accented voice carried on. "A disgusting pig, huh?"

For once, the others were quiet, now that the alcohol was gone. It took Michael a moment to realize I was even gone, "Where the hell is Jeff, and what's taking him so long?"

"I bet ya that he's busy boning that woman, you know, I honestly don't have any idea what she thought about that guy. He's fucking weird." Bono shrugged, tipping the empty beer bottle to the side, trying to keep it steady before turning to give the German woman beside him a kiss to distract her off of Michael. "Weird doesn't even begin to define him."

"Who is Jeff?" The woman pulled back from Michael to ask, making eyes with the rest of the team. "Oh. Right, sorry. Not Jeff, Jeff-uh.. well he's an old friend of mine. I meant Jared."

"Oh. Jared." Andrea purred, "Nothing wrong with Jared. Nice guy." Bono, hearing her words, had cackled. "Well hey, if you like him so much, we should go back there and join him."

Andrea chuckled and brushed the side of Bono's tan jaw, "We should. Let us go." Michael sat back and watched in disbelief, passing a look to Andrew, but Andrew was taken aback having already begun to zone out by the second Andrea departed with Bono for the back hall. "What?"

"I didn't say anything." Michael pinned Andrew under an interrogating gaze, his brows lowered, "but now that you go and mention 'what', what's up with 'Jared', huh? What's up with that guy? All he goes about doin' is staying out late, coming back to the barracks and sleeping in. He drinks too damn much, he's-."

"Don't we drink a little too much too, Mike?" Andrew scoffed, trying to drink what was left out of his bottle, ending up nursing from nothing, and lowering it back down with a clanky, "I mean, c'mon. There's absolutely nothing wrong with Jared." Except, he thought quite the opposite and Michael knew it even under the penetration of his hard gaze that didn't take up off from Andrew. 

Whenever Andrea and Bono got to the door, she began to knock on it. "Jared! We come to join you." Bono glanced to Andrea, then leaned in to place his ear near the door, "Wait a minute. There's no sound." Andrea sighed with a roll of her shoulders, "Quiet sex. Very not entertaining." Bono chuckled and decided to knock on the door again, "Hey, Jared! Open up, man. It's Bono." Nothing came. Andrea grew irritated and moved her hand for the door to try the handle, "Why is it locked?"

"So that no one could come in. Duh." Bono snapped, coming off from the door facing, it dawned on him, "maybe they left."

"Where would they go?" Asked Andrea, leaving her fingers wrapped around the knob lightly. Bono had to think about that through the alcohol swimming through his black mind, coming up with nothing except what he doubted immensely. Swiftly, he shouldered the door barrier until the door shook. Andrea stepped back quickly, "Hey! What are you doing?" However, Bono didn't feel up to listening to her and tried to knock into the door facing again until it splintered and with a jab in turning the knob, he had got the door to buck open with a final shove. "Jared?" He went to addressing as Andrea stood back in the midst of her confusion. Bono didn't even make it in halfway in before noticing that his friend and the girl, Shiloh, hadn't been inside.

"He is not here." 

Andrea crossed her arms, "She is a friend. Your friend, why he is not here?"

Bono rounded to face her, almost shoving by her blocking the doorway and glancing at the back door. "Shit. I've got to talk to Michael." He knew that I was capable of making it out of the bar a number of times, but it just never occurred to him that it would happen right in front of his eyes. In haste, he walked down the corridor with Andrea in tow, spotting Michael in the booth whispering something into Andrews's ear as Andrew sat in a catatonic and wide-eyed state, zoning out across the bar. "Guys! Guys." The introduction caused Michael to snap back from the other and glare at Bono, "What is it now?"

"Jared- he's gone."

"Shiloh, my friend, is not in room." Andrea pointed out, her proper language trying to leak through as she'd gesture to the hall. Michael shook his head, "What do you mean? Gone?" Andrew sighed and buried his face into the palm of his hands, mouthing something incoherently. "Speak!" Michael shouted, "Gone, Michael! Jared he just... ?"

"Right, soldier. I forgot." Michael swayed, standing up to his feet and easing out from behind the table towards Bono in a confrontational stance, "this is why none of us can trust you. Not me, not Andrew-." Andrea stepped in between them but in the heat of the moment, Michael slapped her in a means to knock her out of the way, as she had taken that fall onto the chair, Andrew stood in pursuit and grabbed ahold of Michael to pull him back: "Hey, hey!"

Bono watched on, "Look, I'm not trying to fight with you! But you know what, I am really surprised that the one missing didn't end up being you, instead, it'd been Hans!"

"What the fuck are you on about now?! What the hell do you have to say about Hans?" Michael fought against the grip that Andrew persisted upon Michael with, both arms grabbing onto his and keeping the bucking bull seated on his feet. "Mike- Michael!"

But Michael wasn't there, he was infuriated, "What about Hans!? What do you know about Hans that we don't?" Bono didn't answer, walking to Andrea to check on her and see if this was okay. "Michael, calm down."

"Get off of me."

"Calm down, alright?"

"Is there a problem here?" The boss of the bar approached, his hands fiddling with a glass he'd been holding and cleaning with a cloth, surveying the scene before him. "No." Finally, Michael admitted which resulted in Andrew letting go of him and he'd adjust his posture into a firm though slouching one, walking passed the boss for the front doors. Andrew was left to speak up on what had happened, "It was just a misunderstanding, sir. I got it handled."

"Alright then." The boss would take his leave once he was sure everything was under control and Andrew took to Bono's side, "Is everything okay?"

Bono glanced up to Andrew, looking him dead in the eye, "Whatever you do. Whatever you have to do. Just... make sure he stops." At first, Andrew would have thought Bono was referring to Michael, but when his eyes met with Andrea's face and saw that she looked completely fine compared to earlier, he understood all too well on what the matter of things was. "Bono-."

"Andrew. Go back to the barracks, I'll meet you there soon."

And so he did.

....

They stood there in suits. Speaking among themselves, in a language that wouldn't be defined as none other than German. Their distinct way of saying things were, strict and self reserved as if they were speaking among one another in codes and didn't want anyone else to try and decipher them. Andrew stood outside, not doing much other than listening, but in his heart of hearts, he felt it had to do a lot about someone he knew. Jared. That of whom was not by the name of Jared. Andrew shifted his hands back through his hair and paced a few times before settling against the wall. When the two men had left the room, they passed him an inquisitive stare while placing back on their hats.

He watched until they were gone and entered the room, seeing Bono climbing to the top bunk of their beds. "Bono?" Bono was completely quiet, a few seconds passed and he found himself laughing in disbelief, "No more 'Glub Club'. No more outings, beer, partying- no more women, man. This has got to stop." Andrew swallowed hard, hearing his friend's words, "What was that all about?"

Bono wouldn't say.

"Bono? Please. Tell me that wasn't about Hans." Andrew whispered.

Bono stared up into the dark ceiling, smirking to himself as Andrews back remained to a sleeping Michael in his own bunk. "There is only so much I can tell you, Andrew. But this has gotten way out of hand, if this stuff keeps up, we're done for. We will be sent home, and I refuse to be sent back home on account of what somebody else has done." Bono had paused before adding in, "I still can't believe it."

Still, Andrew was clueless and he remained that way for a very long time. Standing there instead of going to bed, he couldn't bring himself to join Michael on the top bunk, instead, he stood at standby- pacing as he had done in the hallway. Shifting side to side in the doubting silence, his friend? What was it with his friend that he simply couldn't get? He couldn't even get Bono to tell him what was said, or why those men were here now hours ago. Finally, when the door came open a little while after four in the morning, I stumbled in- my shirt had been soaked in what looked like dark tar as I peeled it off from my body. Andrew stood there, his heart racing, I could nearly feel the friction from across the room while he had hesitated in approaching me and had stopped short when he saw what I had been holding.

"Je-..?" The second he'd attempted to break that silence, I held up my hand which gripped the two knives I had held, painting the blood onto my lips as I sought to keep him quiet, "Shh." I said, walking towards the window to toss the knives out. Andrew eyed his surroundings, he didn't want his eyes to keep to me, and when he would walk away from reach he would take for the door and would stop. Turning around, he'd seek for my attention but by this time I'd already crawled into bed on the bottom bunk underneath Bono. Andrews's lips had parted, and then, nothing. 

...

The evening had left us on our own, the other two men in the room had gone off to the showers and I was back to waking up in sweat, tears, and blood. Sitting there at the other end of the nearby table had sat Andrew. I had to reach across for the floor under the cot for my glasses to shove back onto my face, whereas, when he caught me red-handed, Andrew rolled his jaw and stiffened where he sat. Saying nothing once more. I pulled myself off from the bed and threw my legs off of the ledge, placing my hands onto the sides of my face and heaving a sigh. Andrew stood, "How.." he scoffed, "where do I even begin?" I ignored him for the most part, my eyes peering up from beneath weighted brows to see his walking towards the opposite wall with a rolled-up paper in his hand. "You haven't even gone to shower, you slept in here all day and nearly all night. Are you trying to give us bad rep, Jared?"

Jared.

I had nearly forgotten about my name when I raised up from the bed, I sauntered to the smaller round table, plopping down onto the wooden chair as I couldn't just walk out of here looking like I do, could I? If push came to shove, I'd have no choice, yet right now, I wanted to know what Andrew was on about because I didn't have any idea. A little too much time seeped between the cracks of the floorboard and then, the unexpected:

"Care to explain what in the fuck this is about?" The booming voice approached me and I all but jumped out of the wooden chair to stand at attention, apprehensive to start. "What do ya mean?" An article was slapped down onto the table near me: The Seattle Post Intelligencer. Andrew was infuriated, gesturing sternly in its direction while I blankly stared down to it, as though I were blind, deaf, and insensitive. "Huh? Jesus H. Christ.." Andrew hissed with a lower of his arm, turning away from me as I'd reach for it finally in a slow gesture to peek between the cover and the back, "Well I didn't do it!" I shouted, adamant, Andrew couldn't peg this on me. I had no idea what these people writing for the Seattle Post was on about and if I didn't understand the extent of them blaming me for what happened in Bad Kreuznach, Germany, then the likelihood of my selfish stupidity wasn't true.

"You didn't do what?" Andrew turned on me, "you didn't kill those people over in bumfuck-nowhere-Germany. You know somethin', Dahmer, I thought I could trust you." I sank back in the chair, looking up to him in silence with pedaled breath while he ranted on, "I thought I could... ask you what your issue was and you would be straight forward with me. Honest. I mean for shit's sake, you're covered in blood! And clearly I was mistaken." Panting, he snatched the article off of the table and turned to the last page in a jiffy, a page that had my name on it, and he'd shove it into my face. I wasn't as blind as I thought I was, "Hey, cut it out!" I demanded, slapping the paper away from my nose and making a quick stand from the chair, "You can't prove I did anything just because of what some article says." I'd add in a softer, tired tone.

The next set of words he said had taken me for a spin, "Actually, I can."

A low groan had wound out of me before I could stop it; marching passed him for the door, "I'm going out." The footsteps became louder behind me until I had begun to work harder on the locks leading from the smallest of sanctuaries. There was no rest for the wicked; Andrew's combats approached from behind a whole lot faster than I could dodge. A hand grabbed at the back of my arm to spin my body around so that my back slammed against the door frame, then again, that article post was shaking in front of my face just dangling there like a worm on a hook. Andrew was expecting me to bite, his hand now holding onto my old shirt: "You're not leaving this shelter. I have evidence, hardcore evidence that could link YOU- to the five different murders in Bad Kreuznach. Five! So unless you come clean with me, I'm not letting you leave."

I snatched the shirt from out of his hand, he wasn't keeping it. Pulling it over my head to wear it again. "What do you want me to say, Andrew? That I killed those five girls." At first, I was serious, asking him this with pleading blue eyes, knowing, Andrew wasn't one to fall for tricks of any kind too easily. I was at least that observant. Then, a smirk had pried at my lips and I laughed, the noise came snaking out before I had the compacity to stop it, "At least they weren't little boys with their heads cut off and a cucumber shoved down their throat-."

"You think this shit is funny? You think this is a joke to you?!" Andrew pushed into my chest, hard, sending me backward into the door some more with a slap. His hand kept to hitting my chest and his mouth kept to running off on how I wasn't supposed to be laughing, up until I took the initiative to shove him off of me. "You're just angry because you haven't had any time to rest since last week!" I was going to defend myself, simply because, I didn't want anyone to know what was going on. It wasn't as if it was in my honorable mentions to do something so callous as to kill those people, "why would you think that I really wanted to kill them? Just because I'm here, just because we're fighting for the same country doesn't make me a murderer!"

A short of silence drifted between us and gradually, Andrew had let down the hand wielding the paper in front of me and had taken a step back giving me free rein. But judging by the look on his face, I understood what he was doing long before he began doing it. "I am giving you one last chance to admit to the things you've done, one final chance. If you're not honest about why you've killed five innocent people outside of this shelter, I am going to bring you up to your Sergeant and you will be sent home." This guy thought I actually gave a shit about being sent home. Funny. I had nearly laughed but I bit my tongue, choosing a smile for once. A genuine one at all costs, for what it may have been worth. "I- didn't. Kill. Those. Women." I broke it down for him, swiftly returning back to the door and opening it, "I need a beer and you need to leave me alone."

Andrew acknowledged that he couldn't have done anything about this anyway, no matter what he did, but he hated me. He hated me so bad, that he would have done anything in his mediocre power to eliminate me from the Military Base- he envied me. He envied my drinking habits, he envied my strength, my mind- he was disgusted by the way I looked and the way I smelled. Andrew contemplated doing it, putting his role at risk by turning me in on something I had little recollection of ever doing in my life while I have been here. Yet, in the end, he never furnished any information about any of it to the U.S. Authorities because of one thing. And that one thing happened to be that a high ranking U.S. Army Officer was connected to the homicides himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Andrew is actually Billy Capshaw (who is still alive til this day and don't wish to use his name for this reason)
> 
> * Though Billy (Andrew) and Dahmer were roommates, because of everyone's association with one another, I decided to bunk the four mains into the same room which will later change.
> 
> * The Glub Club is a club originated between the 'friends' and Dahmer back when. It also consisted of Dahmer being tied to an alias in favor of many reasons. One consisting that it might've been a cover-up that none of Jeffreys 'friends' were aware of at the time. The name was given to him by (Michael-above-) though the real name remains unknown. 'Michael' is suspected of knowing about Dahmer's tendencies but not yet what he's done. 
> 
> * Andrew (Billy) is later known to be a surviving victim of Dahmer's. He and Dahmer were 'friends', according to Dahmer. However, Billy hated him immensely and had even at one point befallen Stockholm Syndrome, and also, he contemplated killing Jeffrey himself many times.
> 
> * During the time of which Jeffrey served in the army as both a medic and presumed to have worked towards the title rank of Captain, he instead falls back under second in command of the department.
> 
> * During that time, as well, in which Dahmer had served in the Army, four women had been killed including one man by the name of Hans. Two of the women by the name of Andrea and Shiloh having been identified. One of the blond women found mutilated in the snow. Given he had left one night during a blizzard and returned bloody, could be the case there. Many accounts he had returned bloody, and often soaked, and Andrew never says a word on it. Even after witnessing Dahmer toss the knives. 
> 
> * Hermann Hillebrand, the chief prosecutor in the central German city of Bad Kreuznach, said his office began examining unresolved cases after reading about the Dahmer case, which made front-page headlines in Germany.
> 
> * Parts of 11 bodies, including severed heads in cold storage, were found in Dahmer’s Milwaukee apartment on a Monday and investigators said they learned of at least six more victims from Dahmer and other sources. Those of which hadn't ever been solved and that Dahmer has hinted at before:
> 
> "....He came back four hours later, confused, without his glasses, and his clothing was warm to the touch. He had blood on his jacket, and told the guys that he couldn't remember where he'd been or what had happened, and he said, "I think I did something bad, but I can't talk about it." " -Davis has stated (of Dahmer during a Thanksgiving Party in 1979).


	3. Mail Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, David's assigned nurse calls him out in the dark, claiming that he knows what David is up to, triggering him into a panic. Later, Jeffrey Dahmer gets a surprise caller.

David's POV

"Mail!"

I had waited two months for that word, jolting upright in my bed whenever the packaged envelope flew over at me and I'd catch it. Holding the material inside of my hands, I turned it over and slid my finger underneath the seal and tape to break it open, quickly gathering the letter and smaller book inside. Tossing the envelope, I went straight for the letter instead of the book; placing the book beside me on the bed. Skimming over the words, reading the small, fine print, my brows drew tightly together. I almost couldn't believe what I'd been reading, what The Man in the Box was telling me. More like, what he was trusting to tell me and the funny part about it was, that I believed him and yet the harder part about it was, making myself look away. My eyes would leave for the book beside me that had gone by the title: To Hell & Back. It was not the book that was being mentioned inside of the letter though that was Killing for Company. 

He had continued on by saying that he had bought a book at the fair before he had been taken into custody and rewarded a fifty dollar fine along with court fees. He never stated from what, and the idea of what he could've been on about is what nagged at me, and then he had gone on by expressing about how I'd been right. That of the reason regarding the chipmunks. That these chipmunks didn't eat lavender because they were, in fact, poisonous to them, then, on the other hand, he went on by expressing how there are very few things that are poisonous to him as well. And as I had thought about these things, I found myself skimming down, skipping anxiously for the subject I sensed he'd mention eventually and that I just haven't gotten that far to read about. Not yet, anyway. Finally, whenever my eyes had made the connection with: '...first graders', there was a knock at the door.

Brought out of it, my attention zapped over to see one of the nurses standing in the doorway, he'd been leaning into the frame with this near encouraging smirk on his lips. "Sorry, I-?" I made a distracted gesture over the letter and at the bed, fetching for the reason behind his expression, worried that I might've done something wrong by being here now and catching up on things. The nurse shook his head slowly and pulled himself from the door, letting his profoundly buff arms down from across his chest. Walking into the room, he too had made a gesture at the source material I had littered about, "We need to talk." Raising the heel of his shoe, he scuffed the door to a close right as he entered the private bubble I surrounded myself in.

"Um- yeah. Sure. What about?"

I watched as he bent over to gather the envelope, scanning the information on the outside. "...From a Jeff, huh?" His green eyes shot to mine and I tensed up immediately, "My therapist had told me that it'd been alright of me to, well, to write out to him."

"Uh-huh." For some reason, he didn't buy it; folding the envelope up in his hands and walking further towards me. I swallowed the lump in my throat, "...it's a part of coping." The Nurse had said nothing and I fidgeted for another excuse, just to make up the lack of safety I had felt under his glare, and lack of words, fishing around the room. The nurse stopped right at the buckle of my knees, the front of his legs pressed into them and I began to steady my breathing through my nose, pressing my lips tightly together. "Tsk-tsk. Tsk." He tutted, reaching out to grab firmly at my chin and to lure my focus up to him, "David. Do you realize what you're doing? Hm?"

"If you're referring to the letters, ...It-? It won't happen again." 

He said nothing at first, his eyes wide and seeking to force mine to deliberately look into them but being one not entirely fond of eye contact, I dropped them. Unsure of what he was even getting at, and uncomfortable in the position I was being made to be put in. "I can tell you've done your research." Letting go of my chin, he stepped back away from me, bobbing the folded envelope inside of his hand, nodding curtly, he'd trace the front of his tongue onto the back of his bottom teeth, "Now that you know a little more about this guy, I can only make a wild guess as to why you're so drawn to him. '...I want to breathe you. Be your friend.'" He laughed, "Really, David? Seems like you want to be a little more than just friends."

In my defensive, I sat forward, trying to make a grab for the envelope but in turn, he had yanked the letters from out of my grasp and held both over his head. "It's not what that looks like!"

"Conspiring to escape the mental institution all because you want to..." his waist jolted towards me mockingly, "meet up with this guy, huh?" Another lot of laughter and I tried to reach back out for the letters once more but got a hit in the head, the sharp knocking off the side of his fist sending it to the side a bit and I grunted, glancing up to his cheek just out of view of his eyes meeting my own. "It's not..."

"What it looks like." He finished for me, "David. You act as if I don't know you, your tragic history, your so-called Father. That ex of yours, what was his name? Ni-? No. Ah," he scoffed, "right. Dennis."

My eyes went cold, floating towards his by now, not knowing how he got ahold of that information but I felt as if this whole situation was meant to belittle me. Make me feel small and worse, have me feel even more disgusted with myself. "We were never together." I denied it, holding onto the side of my temple. "I never knew that-." when the other hit had come right as I lowered my hand, I shot the same one up in an attempt to block it, but he'd been too fast. "...Ottis Toole. He's not really your Father, is he? I'm starting to wonder why you're even in here, boy. Why, the fuck, are you even here?" Lowering down, his free hand twisted into the neck of my shirt, guiding me halfway up to him from off of the bed, following my floating attention around the room as his eyes fixed on mine, until he successfully gathered my focus to be on nothing else besides him.

"Why are you here, David?"

My lips parted, and I hitched a breath before saying, "Can I just have my letters back, plea-."

"Why?" His voice came more sternly now, as did his grip on my shirt.

I took in a long breath. "Can I, just ha-." The hand concealing the letter and envelope dipped between his thighs and he'd nestle them there against his crotch. His smirk returned, after a second, he even said: "If you want them that badly, you're going to have to grab 'em yourself." I had grit my teeth together, my breathing growing unsteady at my apprehension. I wanted those letters, and I'd been a fool to think he was just ailing me to cop a feel, for the very second I slid my thin fingers between his thighs to delve for the material, he sucker-punches me. The agility of the hit sending me backward and the aim of his fist sending my teeth knocking together; chin throbbing along with my jaws. Groaning, I led my leg up onto the bed and watched as he took the papers and envelope between his fingers and stared down at me while he'd steadily tear them both apart. My pleas for him not to pull through with it falling onto death ears. "Uh! Looks like it's already been done, fag."

The hateful terminology pissed me off. I was becoming wired through by this short fuse about ready to pop off, and break free, my instability poking through the red I was sure had been becoming of my eyes. His words would run on but I'd hear nothing; tearing the same paper all over again in another direction just to ensure it impossible to be pieced back together prior to throwing it all onto the floor. His hands coming up, mute, in feigned surprise. By the time my hearing came back, as did the final hint of his statement: "...we can't have too much evidence laying around here with your name on it. So you ought to be really careful about the fool you're trying to make of yourself and think about your health, instead." His attention fled from me to the bed and saw the book, I thought for a hard minute he was going to take that one too and tear it apart as well, but he let it go. Thinking nothing of it. Because I refused to respond to him, he'd finally turn for the door with an: 'I'll catch up on you later.' Leaving me inside of the room by myself.

Finally, I had let go of the breath I'd been holding and pulled up for the book. Glancing at the door, I was both panting and infuriated. With shaking fingers, I pried it open, not knowing what ailed me to do so or why I was lead to peek at the back and front covers but as I had, something else fell from between two pages and it was in the form of a small card. Laying away the book, time slowed when I went for it to see what it was. To my dismay, it had been a phone number and below it had been two words specifically stating:

Call me

-

Growing up, I never truly had a Dad and very seldom had my own Mum been in the picture. I was raised with my two sisters though, the majority of the time, I was raising them. We lived inside of a small and affordable home in north London up until Dad decided not to come back home anymore because he had found another woman and that was that. Mum and I helped pack into a car and we took to America, Florida to be exact. And that's where I had met Adam Walsh. We grew to be tight, best friends who ruled a pirate ship and harbored all of the loot- buckets filled with loot and streams of gold. My two sisters, Kara and Elizabeth had suddenly become too invested in their dolls and it was just Adam and me until the other kids came along and ruined our little fantasy with video games that I began to resent for a while due to the idea that they were trying to draw Adam away from me. 

I had, in such a short time, became protective of him but I guess a part of me still envied him a bit. I would use the time I didn't have spending with Walsh to try and make up for the lack of time I had lost with Kara and Elizabeth but then again, they too were either too busy with their new friends or talking among themselves in the both of their little Private Tree House. Mom had eventually wound back up with another man, a friend of Mr. Walsh's, and I hardly saw of her either. I felt alone, and in truth, abandoned.

'What happened? I thought we were best friends.' I told the younger Adam one day during recess at school; pushing him on the swing. 

Adam just shrugged, 'But playing pirates is boring.'

'Boring?!' I shoved him again.

'Yeah.' But he sounded unsure of his answer.

Pushing him, I shrugged, 'we can do other stuff.'

'Like what?' He said.

'I don't know.' I pushed him.

He was quiet for a moment, then would pout his lips. 'I like games!' Suddenly he was no longer pouting, and I could feel my heart sink at the mention of video games, being reminded of his other friends. The cool kids.

He went on: 'Jake.. he has this one game, and he plays with me... Galaxian.' He would breathe literally between each word, 'and we shoot spaceships and stuff... and it's really awesome! And we all play it... and ..phew! Phew! Phew! ...And kill the aliens and the blue lobsters!'

I stopped pushing him, my mind just decided to walk off on me during his prolonged excitement. Adam kicked his feet and looked back to see where I was. 'I'm not done.' 

It was then that I had folded my arms and walked away. When his Dad got him into Little League, I noticed that all of that changed and he and his friends weren't really playing games anymore like they used to. Instead, Adam began collecting Baseball cards and rattled on about those too. Just another thing I didn't know about, either. I became bored with him, and we would drift apart, yet in the midst of Mum's happiness for finding a man to replace Dad, she has begun to reach out to me more. Looking into my life to find the reason for my feeling to upset about Adam, I had told her that he was being mean and ignoring me and that I had no idea what he liked anymore. At my young age, she supposed I had meant to say that I felt that he was avoiding me and he was simply going through phases, for a boy being so new into life. He wanted to take adventures, and that it didn't mean that he didn't like me or pirates anymore, it just meant that he was learning to sail his own ship for a while.

So I asked her: '...what's wrong with our ship?'

And Mom smiled, pulling me into a side-hug. 'Maybe you need a new one. That's all.' Roughing up my hair to make me grin. A couple of weeks later, my Stepdad had built me a ship in the backyard beside my sisters' treehouse. Of course, they were upset about it, which I didn't find funny back then. They, the girls, wanting so badly for the boys to stay away because we were all gross and 'weren't allowed' as they put it, 'into their magical kingdom'. And, that's when Step Dad stepped in with a lisp: 'If it's mwagical, thwen thwere's bwoys riight? And thwere's dwagons, and ...look out! What's that over there?!' He failed to mention girls. On the other hand, I was too happy to notice, and even happier if that was possible when I saw where he pointed and noticed my friends running into our yard earning grunts and screams from the few girls hiding up inside of the treehouse. There was Adam with his baseball bat and then there were the others on their wooden horses prancing in until their horses became swords and Adams baseball bat turned to fend them off.

"It's magic!' I remember feeling loud, exclaiming it in such a tender way that I had forgotten about my problems. Everything. Mrs. Walsh later mentioned how we could all go down to the mall one day and play the Atari, and for once, just because I had my friends back, I wanted to play games too. I admit, the pizza hangovers I had had with Adam and his friends (who were now my friends) became addicting. Sometimes, I'd been scolded to put the controller down for once to do some homework. And other times, I didn't even want to take turns with any of the others and was called names, then there was this one time when Adam and a two of the other boys ran out of the room because George faked a farting sound claiming that it was me. I was laughing along with him until I saw the frown on his face, and noticed he was staring at me weird. So I had handed the controller over to him and said gently: "Here".

I'd never forgotten how this ten-year-old leaned over to take the controller because it was like he couldn't take it without planting a kiss to my cheek. I must have blushed ten times over the colour pink until I turned red. At the time, I didn't understand why he did it, though I have watched in movies where girls would kiss the boys cheek if they liked him. So I had assumed it's what he meant by it too. I was over the moon about it, but he made me promise to never tell anyone about the kiss, and so I never did. Then, one day was all that it took for things not to be so magical anymore.

Ottis Toole wasn't my Father. I know, I lied. The thing was, he was my stepdad, so it really doesn't make too much of a difference. The man himself, Ottis, was what one might refer to as a drifter and boy had he drifted a lot. One woman to the next, to the next. I won't ever know what my Mum saw in him aside from the fact that he was American and that he had money at the time that he was willing to help out with, and yet, he lived this double life. He was not only sleeping with my Mum but he was sleeping with Adam's Mum and then there was the obvious, he was around my sisters. He was around Adam, around George, Nick, and Corey. He was around everyone I knew. And they were all deceived by him, this ...how do I put it? 'pretty from afar, pretty gross up close' looking man, and it wasn't so much that he was dubbed to have an IQ of only 75, but that he was overall just a very weird and extremely handsy man who lacked any emotion for anyone or anything aside from himself.

He did do things, to me, things of which I don't wish to recall. Meanwhile, I had seen him with another man a few times while waiting outside for the bus after school. He didn't even acknowledge me, or my existence, and he'd been practically all over him. And when he was with me, those number of times when he was sexually abusing me, he would refer to me as Susan. I had always thought it had something to do with another girl he knew, that he'd been having affair with, though come to think about that now. He was hardly ever having an affair with my Mother, and the one time I did overhear him screwing her from all the way into my bedroom one night when the girls were over at their friends' house having a sleepover; it was the final time he'd ever touched Mum. I'm not even exaggerating. She had even suspected that when she called things off with him, that the reason I'd been crying was that Ottis was gone, and the truth was that I was in such a state of shock after he had left. Like so much burden was let off of me, though to the same extent, I was afraid of him coming back. I still never told Mum about anything at the time.

That fling with Mum only lasted three full days, on and off. She thought she was the happiest woman alive until she slept with him. I never asked her about why. Besides that, I was too young and naive to know any better really. I didn't even understand the crime behind the sick pleasure he was taking out on me, and when it happened, he hardly made a sound and had my mouth covered with a greasy hand the whole time. One day, I brought it up to the one person I thought I could trust: George. When I told him, he looked scared, about as scared as me and stood up from off of the carpet; walking into his closet; pulling out a box and coming back to meet me on the floor. Placing the box between us, he nudged it towards me. 'What is it?' I asked him, and George lowered his eyes, anticipating for me to open it up and to look inside. Already freaked out, I at first couldn't, yet then I did; sliding the box over into my lap and pulling apart the cardboard flaps. When I saw what was inside, before I could scream, George lunged toward me to cover my mouth.

My hands instinctively throwing the box off and away from me, still screaming behind his forceful bind to my lips. He shushed me, trying to make me stay quiet. However, I never got to ask him about what I saw in the box that day because of his Mother walking in to warn about the pizza getting cold. Nor did I ever stop to think about what I saw in there, ever again, long enough to ask George about it in the future. Instead, I kept what I saw to myself. And what I saw didn't amount to the time Ottis drove up into the parking lot after two entire months of my ever seeing him; driving a 1971 white Cadillac and instead of greeting me had asked for Adam instead.

That box had concealed a pair of bloody, ivory briefs that he would later confess belonged to him. 'You can't tell anyone about it... pinky promise.' He made me swear on my life prior to us all getting together one final time.  
-

Call me

For a while, I stared down at that small card like it held the weight of life all on its own. It was strenuous to imagine what his voice might sound like on the other end of that phone. Who might answer? What might be said once he, or she, answered? The fact being, I didn't know whose number it was. It could have only been Jeff's', right? Who else's, I mean, after all, he'd been the one to send me that letter and book. But that also, the envelope had been opened and taped again, so there was no doubt in my mind that this could have been a prank too. The number could belong to anybody. It didn't have to be Jeff's. It didn't have to belong to The Man in the Box.

Wrapping my hand around the phone, I blew out a breath of air from the purse of my lips, still, a bit shook from earlier. Reliving the trauma of being approached in a way such as a nurse had approached me had, really, pushed me back a few years. Back to Ottis, back to the sexual assault. Hell, back to being called Susan. With my stomach in knots, I pushed in the numbers and caught a sweat waiting there on foot in the fit for keeping my breath from leaving me cold to the bone. The phone would ring once. Pause. Twice. Pause. The third time prolonged, then the incoming rush of a busy signal. Sucking in air through my teeth, I took this as a warning. It was not the right time to be reaching through in this way, anyhow, and was this such a wise idea? After what the nurse said- why was I even listening to him, to begin with? Now, of all times? Had it been any other way, had I never struggled against the urge to not punch myself up in an hour like this, I would have said 'Fuck him'.

I didn't hang up the phone. By choice, I redialed.

And then, I had hung onto that cord as if my life depended on whoever answered. I was buttonholed by the same set of ringing; going on forever. When a pause had come, and I had thought assuredly that no one was going to pick up; the line had clicked in addition to a smaller, softer voice coming in from the other end. I couldn't hear it, or make out what it was saying at first. My grip on the phone had become firm, practically too firm, "...Hello?" I grilled, bending over for the wall at my side, albeit, facing it to hide a portion of my face concurrently hiding it from the security camera on the other side of the hallway. Succeeding a few seconds, the voice came again, and this time I could detect it. "Hello." It said, the voice belonging to that of a man, and on the contrary, one I hadn't recognized. "Can I help you?" I waited, and then pulled through, "Y-yes. My name is David. I'm calling from the, er? Aurora Psychiatric Hospital. I had received your card in between the pages of a book: To Hell and Back, and I was told to call you." I turned the card over nervously, staring down at it with my forehead pressed up against the wall, "Actually, what the card had said was: call me. So I had."

"Aurora Psychiatric Hospital. In Milwaukee?" The voice inquired.

I nodded, though forgot that the person couldn't hear the beans in my brain rattle and so spoke up, "Yes. Yes, Milwaukee." It was a long story, if he was looking for one, I wasn't really wanting to discuss it. The back and forth, of how I have once resided in London, then moved to Florida and then now to here. He didn't appear to care in asking, either, thankfully. After a second of silence, I was left feeling like we were shifting for something to say, and following a small bit of static, his voice came back around:

"I thought that was you." He sounded familiar with me already, he had been waiting for my call. For how long is the question, that part was pretty vague. 

"Hey, David. It's so nice to finally hear your voice." 

Jeffrey professed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter!  
> Please don't copy my work, and feel free to tell me what you guys think of it so far :)


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